


200

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: M/M, vampire boyfriends forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning of his two-hundredth birthday, Abraham Lincoln wakes up to soft touches and the gift of a trip across America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	200

**Author's Note:**

> (originally posted on LJ like, months ago. But I'm trying to get all my writing in one place so....)
> 
> Set after the book, so in the Times of Vampire Boyfriends Forever. Also, I started writing it without checking the chronology of the book, so it makes NO SENSE with publishing dates or the timeline that Mr. Grahame-Smith established. But having realized that, I decided to ignore it. So just imagine that within this fic, the book was published when the movie came out. Or something like that? Whatever.

  
He woke up to the feeling of fingers on his ear. Cool, soft fingers trickled down from his ears to his jaw; a thumb stroked across his cheek. He groaned happily, and a pair of lips pressed against his.

Then, whispered against his mouth, "Good morning, Mr. Lincoln." A slight trickle of sunlight was coming in through the half closed curtains, and even with such a small sample, Abe can tell it's not quite morning anymore. In fact, it's probably closer to evening.

Henry tongued open his mouth and gave Abraham a wet, obscene kiss. He stroked Abe's face, running fingers over cheekbones and eyebrows. A soft, warm look floated over Henry's features as he leaned in for another languid kiss.

"Happy birthday, my Abraham."

Abe laughed. They hadn't mentioned his birthday in far over fifty years. They never celebrated birthdays, and, in fact, Abe actually had no idea when Henry's even was. They didn't celebrate anniversaries either. If they did, Abe was sure they would have an anniversary every day of the year, of some event or other. Their first kiss, their first kill, the day they signed their first lease on a house, the day they stepped onto the boat to Europe, the day they came back from abroad feeling relieved and happy, their first time on a plane, in a car (the one piece of technology that had initially sent Henry reeling, and that Abraham adored), the first time they kissed in the back of a taxi. Too many anniversaries to even consider, so they consider none of them. Their relationship does not need landmarks. Their _lives_ do not require landmarks; they have each other, and that is all. Abe hardly even consults the calendar anymore. Eternity, he feels, is too long to bow to the laws and whims of calendars and clocks.

"It isn't."

"It is," Henry said, pushing at Abe's shoulders so he rolled onto his back. "February 12th." Henry rolled with him, and their bodies press together in a pleasing way. Beginning to nuzzle and nip at Abe's neck, Henry keeps talking; "February 12th, 2009. Two hundred years, Abraham."

"No. It can't be," Abe groans, because two hundred years seems impossible, and also because honestly Henry does things to him, even after all this time, that surprise him and consistently make him writhe. Hands slip down his chest and under his waist band. "Oh," Abe says.

"Two. Hundred. Years," Henry hisses, starting into the really good stuff.

On the morning of his two-hundredth birthday, Abraham Lincoln wakes up to fingers on his ear and the best sex he's had in a long time.

Henry knows how to deliver a birthday gift.

\---

Falling into bed together should not have been a surprise, but rather the somewhat obvious culmination of a hundred years of affection. Yet, when it happened, Henry had whispered quitely, "I never truly thought this day would come."

"Well," Abraham had breathed against Henry's neck; "Here we are."

Their relationship simply arrived at this point one day in the early twentieth century. Abe does not linger on it, but he supposes he always knew that this was what his feelings for Henry were. He always considered Henry his dearest and closest friend, even when they fought and even when they separated, but he supposes he always knew that the feeling deep in his chest, the one that settled heavily under his ribs and occasionally pooled low in his stomach... he supposes he always knew that _that_ feeling was something more than friendship.

They crashed together after yet another argument; Henry had been yelling, screaming, running his voice raw. It was unfair, he screamed at Abe's back, that after all this time, after nearly sixty years, after he had lived longer as a vampire than he ever had as a man, Abraham could not accept that Henry had given him a gift by turning him. That they had done so much good together. That surely it was worth it. Abraham had scoffed. He had been angry since his death, and that anger would not dissipate easily, or quickly, or soon. It didn't matter how much _good_ they had done; what mattered was what Henry had stolen from him. The gift of death. The one gift Henry would never give him.

No, it was not worth it.

He had made up his mind long ago on this point, had heard all of Henry's railings, all his pleadings, over and over and over again... In their long friendship, Henry's decision to turn Abraham stood as the one selfish thing he had ever done. The anger Abraham felt had not diminished for those first sixty years, and yet he still could not bring himself to turn and face his friend. He could not bear to look him in the eye. Not when they fought like this. Not when they fought _about_ this. Knowing how deeply Henry felt, how miserable he was when Abe was upset with him... It was hard, sometimes, to hold his resolve in the face of such feeling.

"Why won't you look at me?" Henry growled, his fury receding into something heavier, something sadder. "Abraham, please. Look at me."

"I will never forgive you, Henry. I cannot."

A harsh, barking laugh croaked it's way out of Henry's throat; "You have never been crueler in your entire life, Mr. Lincoln."

"You have never been anything but cruel."

He had expected to hear another nasty laugh, but what greeted his ears instead was the sound of a heart breaking. Yes, Abraham thought, that miserable, horrible sound that trickled from Henry's mouth could be nothing else.

"Don't you realize," Henry hissed through his teeth as his voice cracked and graveled, "that everything I have done, I have done for your benefit? That I cannot live without you? Don't you care that without you, Abraham Lincoln, I am nothing? Without you, my life is nothing... Without you, there is nothing.  Don't you realize? Or does it simply not matter to you?"

Finally, Abraham turned.  

Surely, if it were possible, tears would be streaming down Henry's face. But it is not, and anger surges from him instead. Anger and utter misery and complete disappointment. It was the look of a man, not a monster, and of a man who had just been hurt very badly.

Henry always carried a sensitive soul within him.

And there was something else there as well. Some other emotion bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Have I so utterly misread you?"

"Of course it matters to me," Abe replied quickly. "Of course."  Silence fell over the room. It was clear Henry did not believe him. Abe approached slowly, and when he was close enough to touch, Henry stepped back. He retreated until his back was against the wall, and then he pushed Abraham away, unwilling to accept any show of kindness now.

"Perhaps you should leave then, Abraham. It is what you have always wanted. Why you have stayed with me this long is a mystery."

"No," Abraham said, forcing his way into Henry's personal space. Crowding him, he placed his hands on Henry's shoulders. "If I had desired to leave, I would be gone. And I have never wanted to leave." He leans in, and places his forehead against Henry's. "I care very much for you. You are not nothing."

With a shuddering breath, Henry's hands found their way to the back of Abraham's neck.

"Abraham," he said, and then Abe kissed him.

They crossed that line and kept going and Abraham has never looked back. After all this time, Henry has never tired of him, never grown bored, never looked at him with anything other than respect and warmth and utter love. Any anger has passed, any disappointment has flickered away in light of the deep love that burns so brightly from inside Henry, that no negative feeling can truly find a foothold in him. Such feelings emerge quickly and burn brightly, and then are gone like shooting stars. Henry loves him too well.

Henry has always loved him, loved him more than was appropriate or healthy, ever since the first day they met when Abe was a boy of sixteen years. On that day, as Henry saved his life and dragged him home to recuperate, he looked at Abraham's face and saw his destiny. He saw a life filled with suffering and turmoil, far too much already for a boy so young, and far too much to come. And he saw so much love. And he knew,  in that moment, that he was utterly lost. He would follow Abraham Lincoln until the end of his life, however long that might be.

And then he ensured that he might follow Abraham forever. Simply forever because no other option was tolerable to him.

\---

They lay next to each other afterwards, on that morning of Abraham's two-hundredth year, each panting and smiling, each without a single a bead of sweat on either of their bodies. Henry rolls onto his side and places a palm upon Abraham's cheek. He smooths the slight crows feet around Abe's eyes with his thumb.

"You look younger and younger every day, my dear," Henry says. And while Abraham laughs, because he has been fifty-six for a very long time now, he knows that somehow Henry is right. He feels younger every day, and he thinks, if given enough time... he might indeed be twenty-five again as his vampiric body slowly slowly heals away the scores of a lifetime.

He laughs and presses a kiss to Henry's forehead; "You are too kind."

Henry holds Abe's head very still, and looks at his face very seriously. He squints his eyes in an imitation of deep thought. "If I had to say, I'd think you look about... forty-two this morning. Forty-six at the highest. At this rate, you might be handsome again... someday."

 _This_ makes Abe laugh in earnest.

"Oh no," he says; "I was never handsome."

Now Henry laughs-- his laugh is a delicate twinkle compared to Abe's hearty, deep-chested laughter.

"No," He admits, "perhaps not. But you were always quite beautiful to me."

Before things can get too heart-felt, Abraham silences Henry with a pressing kiss. Henry laughs against Abe's advances, and they roll together for a bit more tumbling.

\---

Henry's birthday is in early May, and his affinity for Shakespeare comes from the fact they were born within a month of each other, in 1564, and within a hundred miles, in England. They had even met once, when they were both very young men.

He hasn't acknowledged his birthday since his death in 1587. There seemed no point. Yet it passes every year with an inevitable, bittersweet glance at the calendar. Another year come and gone.

Abraham has never asked after the fact.

\---

As a further gift, Henry takes Abe on a year long tour of America. And even though they've seen almost all of it before, in their long second life together, Henry thinks it would suit them to see it as tourists.

Abraham is not quite so sold on the idea, but he's happy enough to follow Henry's whims. It's about time for  a change of scenery anyway.

For the past thirty years, they had been cuddled up quite happily in a very old house down in Charleston, just off the battery, which Henry has furnished very eclectically, because he likes to keep up with the times and Abraham doesn't. But Abraham does like to look out at Fort Sumter while the sun sets. The south is, in many ways, tainted for him by horrid memories of slavery and vampires and violence. But there are evenings that Henry catches him out on the portico, staring towards the small island three and a half miles out into the bay, and in those moments  Abraham looks utterly content.

They _go west, young man_ , and decide to work their way back. They fly-- against Abraham's wishes because planes have always made him nervous-- out to Seattle, where they buy a car and start driving. As they go down the coast, Henry declares his love for each and town they pass through.  "We must live here someday," he says of San Fransisco; "Wouldn't it be lovely to have a house just here?" He asks as they stand just off the beach in Monterey. They visit deserts and mountains, and Las Vegas-- to which they both have such a visceral, negative reaction that they leave almost immediately.

They stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon and tempt the winds to blow them over. They drive north to visit the Grand Tetons, which are beautiful, and they swim in the very cold lakes at the base of the mountains.

They go north into Yellowstone.

"I don't quite understand the allure," Henry says idly as they stand and watch the geysers erupt. The air is cool, but the sun is bright and when it dips behind a cloud Henry breathes a sigh of relief. His skin has been sensitive lately. He hasn't mentioned it to Abe.

"You don't care for the outdoors, Henry. I can see why this doesn't appeal to you."

Driving north through Montana, they watch the mountains emerge from the horizon, beautiful and blue.

In Glacier National Park they wander off the trail and run through the lush, thick forest. The mist swirls under their feet and Henry laughs with abandon. The forest is prehistoric and damp, and they fuck on a bed of moss and mud. Just like almost always, there is something angry about their love making. Abraham presses and bites and scratches. He grinds Henry into the mud and growls. It's as if he is angry, still angry, forever angry, at the great intrusion of being made a vampire.

And perhaps he is. The anger is part of their physical relationship, and a part that Henry accepts without question or comment. He accepts all the hate and pain and abuse that Abraham lays upon him, and it simply makes him cling tighter. _I will never lose you again,_ he always thinks, _I will never let you go._ If this is what it takes to keep Abraham at his side, Henry accepts it.

Abraham pulls moss out of Henry's hair and they kiss. For every pain and twist, Abraham always provides a tender touch or sweet kiss. He places his lips against Henry's shoulder and smiles; he hums against Henry's mouth, and they breath together, sharing air and each others company.

He isn't that angry, really. Not anymore. Not when he looks into Henry's eyes during moments like this, knowing that he's been too rough, and sees only love and contentment. It's hard to be too angry at someone who cares so deeply for him.

"I'm starting to coagulate," Henry says; "May I get out of the muck, please?" With a laugh Abraham helps him stand.

\---

Abraham never stops wearing his wedding ring. It adorns his left hand like a badge of honor, a reminder of the life he led and the people he left behind. Over time it has become tarnished and bent and dented, but he never removes it. It seems that he hardly thinks about it anymore. It has become a part of his body.

Henry starts wearing his wedding band again in 1965, after he and Abraham have spent a century together. He never mentions it to Abe, but he wears it as a symbol of commitment to his dear Mr. Lincoln. He doesn't mention it because he isn't convinced that Abraham feels the same way, and he's not sure he could bear the humiliation of being told so.

Abraham never mentions it either, whether he notices or not.

\--

They drive up and down the country, looping and twisting and taking circuitous routes more often than not. They visit every national park they cross and every historic home. There are places that they avoid nearly completely (most of Texas, New Orleans), and places where they spend full weeks (Nashville, Chicago).

They tour Mammoth Caves, and Henry is, for the first time in years, so awe-stricken he can hardly speak.

"I toured this cave when it first opened in 1818," he whispers as they trail along at the back of the group. "It was impossible then to see how truly massive it is."

Abraham looked around him, at the huge chambers, and thought of the first home he had known with Henry-- the underground cabin from when he was sixteen.

"I was nine years old in 1818," he said.

Henry gave his hand a slight squeeze; "I know."

Abe has to stoop through most of the smaller passages of the cave, and bumps his head on rock formations at least four times. By the time their tour is over, Abe is miserable. The cool air underground gives him shivers and makes him feel sluggish. But Henry loves it. Henry wants to to do the knees-and-belly spelunking tours. Henry wants to delve into the very bowels of the earth and stay for days.

"You can go ahead, if you like," Henry says as he examines a tour schedule. "I can catch up with you in a day or two."

\----

For a while in the 1970's, Henry became unaccountably enamored with The Carpenters, and played their records constantly. He stands in front of the turntable and sways and hums along to songs like "We've Only Just Begun" and "Close to You".

"If you keep playing things like this, I'll chop my own head off," Abraham had said dryly from behind a book.

He did not see quite how very serious Henry's eyes became; "Don't talk like that."

"There's much better music than this."

"If you don't like it, you can leave. I, however, do like it. So either buy your own records or learn to like my music."

Abe laughs, but three days later new records arrive in the house.

\---

They pass through Springfield, Illinois and hardly speak a word to each other. Abe goes through his old home, now preserved and a national historic site. He sees the bed he slept in for ten years. His writing desk. Mary's bed. The bed they shared. A sinking, heavy weight settles in his stomach. The boys' room. The parlor. The stove Mary ordered. The stairs he climbed every day.

It's hard for him to be here, after all this time, and to listen to strangers talk about his life and relationships as events in the distant past. To climb those familiar stairs once more, and yet be unable to sit at his own desk.  To hear the laughter of children from downstairs, and know that his boys have been dead for such a very long time. And Henry isn't even with him. Henry thought he would like to do this tour by himself.

Henry was wrong.

And it turns out that Henry's plan to tour America involved visiting most of the important places in Abe's life.

He takes them to the tomb north of town, which Abraham finds vaguely amazing and appalling. It's very strange to stand before a casket with his name on it. And to see Mary's name there, along with Robert and Tad and Willie and Eddie... At least this time, Henry is there to hold his hand. And Abe holds his hand very tightly indeed.

"It's not... unhandsome," Henry comments as they're leaving.

"It's gaudy," Abe says sadly. "It's too much. It's not what I would have wanted."

"It is well deserved."

Henry takes him to the remnants of New Salem, and to his childhood home near Evansville.

They go to the birthplace monument as they pass through Kentucky.

"Look familiar?" Henry asks.

Abe has no memories of this site, except for a slight recollection of the trickling Sinking Spring and the large old oak that once stood on the corner of the property, but which died years and years ago.

"Not really," Abe says. "No."

"Shall we visit the boyhood home?" Henry asks, turning the brochure over in his hands. He has a small collection of these National Park brochures now, from each place they've visited. He's thinking of creating a scrapbook, because, honestly, he could use a new hobby anyway. Might as well. "Maybe that will ring a few more bells."

Abe wavers, staring up the hill at the strange mausoleum that stands to mark the symbolic place of his birth. It makes him feel uncomfortable in his skin. Even worse was the strange little log cabin which stands inside it.

"I'd prefer not to." He shrugs; "You know how I feel about all this... the monuments and memorials and sites... It's the same way I felt about the one in Washington. I don't care for it."

"Abraham," Henry says as they make their way back to the car. He has been waiting to say this for years, and is still unsure how to say it. "You are loved and admired by this entire country. You are a hero to it's ideals and it's principles. You are a good man, and you have done so much good. You have a legacy that will last through the ages. You should be very proud."

Abraham merely shrugs and toys with the ring of keys in his pocket. Looking over his shoulder, he glances back at the mausoleum on the hill. Henry can see one of Abe's black moods settling in for a long stay.

"I'm not sure I am."

"Well," Henry says in a falsely cheery chirp. It's becoming obvious now that this isn't quite working out like he had hoped. He tucks his elbow into Abe's and pulls them tightly together; "I admire you and I am proud of you. And if the love of a nation doesn't do it for you... _I_ love you, Abraham. So very much. And I, personally, like to see you celebrated and hailed and respected. You _are_ a hero to your country, and to history. You will be remembered forever, memorialized at sites like this. You have left a lasting legacy. I, meanwhile, for example, will never be anything more than a name on a ships register. One young man and his wife, on a doomed voyage to America, nearly five hundred years ago. And some people have less than that to leave to history. There are more people like me in the world, Abraham, than people like you. I am forgotten, lost in the annals of history, nothing more than a footnote no one will ever read. But you... You are _Abraham Lincoln_."

The legend has nothing to say to this. He just looks off into the distance and lets his long legs carry him back to their car.

They've been driving for twenty miles before Abe speaks again; "I think I'd like to go home."

\---

Henry maintains his fortune by selling antiques and art, all of which he has collected over his many years of life. He has always had good taste, and so most of his collection is worth quite a pretty penny. It allows him to buy and sell homes as he pleases, and to take year long trips. Yet his age is catching up to him; he has done everything and every day weighs heavily upon his shoulders. He is tired of everything in life but Abraham.

Abraham does not work at anything that would garner an income. His only desire for productivity in life is to ensure liberty and justice for all (though even that is beginning to feel empty to him), and happiness for himself. These days he reads a lot and plays with kittens and helps Henry around the house. He is tired of fighting, even for the right causes.

They are tired together, yet together they continue their existence. Together they laugh and kiss and lay in bed. Together they have lived for so very long. Henry can hardly remember how he was before Abe; the loneliness of those first two centuries, the misery, the guilt, the frustration. He does not like to think about it.

They have shuffled names consistently over the years, Abraham Lincoln and Henry Sturges becoming Abraham Sturges and Henry Lincoln becoming Hal Seward and Arthur Laurel becoming Andrew Speed and Harvey Locke. Henry stays up-to-date with styles and fashions. Abe resists as much as possible.

"You are all I live for," Henry whispers one early morning, when Abe is asleep.

\---

At the end of the trip, Abe looks at their house in Charleston and says, "it's time to move." They pack up their belongings and Henry picks out a house in upstate New York. Abe puts his journals and all their correspondence into a box and hands it over.

"Why are you giving me these?" Henry asks, fearing that he knows the answer already.

"I want you to hold onto them for me."

"Why?" Henry asks, and then insists. He won't allow Abraham to dodge the question. Not this time. "Why?"

Abraham looks away, his hands fumbling with his keys.

"Why?"

Abe rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath before answering. "I need to get away for a while."

And while Henry knew this day would come, it still feels like a punch in the gut. Nausea rises in his throat, and for a moment Henry wonders if it is even possible for him to vomit. In four hundred years of being a vampire, he has never so felt the urge to empty his stomach all over someone's shoes.

He fingers the ring on his left hand.

"Henry," Abraham says, interpreting the stricken look on his companions face correctly, "you understand, don't you?"

"Of course," Henry answers tersely.

"I'm going to come back."

"Yes."

"It's just..." Abe ducks his head, and for a moment Henry can see the sixteen year old boy again. Bashful and curiously self-assured simultaneously. "In visiting all those monuments and sites, I felt so wretched about myself and my legacy. I don't want to face it. I don't like it. You say that I am loved by my country, but half of my life is buried in secrets. Even when I was alive, I touted lies and falsehoods about what I was doing and why, and my legacy reflects that. It is all fundamentally... incomplete. But you're right to say that I should be proud. I feel that I need time to sort through it all myself."

It's a speech that has probably been at least partially planned and practiced. Henry says nothing. He holds onto the little box and sits on the couch. The packet of letters seems smaller than it should. Abe sits down next to him and removes a second stack of letters from his coat pocket, held together with a bit of twine.

"These I'm keeping with me," he explains, and hands the stack to Henry.

It's all of the love letters Henry has sent over the years, from when business separated them. He flips through them slowly, looking at his own scrawled handwriting.

\-- _it is an especially hot day and I am thinking of you--_

_\--I cannot stand the this city without you at my side--_

_\--my heart, Abraham, damaged as it is--_

They are all signed nearly identically, and Henry shudders to look at them.

_Ever, H_

_Yours ever, H_

_yours, H_

_yours entirely, H_

_I love you and ache to be with you again. Believe me when I say that I am yours, H_

He's pathetic. It's embarrassing.

Abraham reaches and takes hold of Henry's hand.

"I won't be gone longer than a year."

He scoffs and shakes off Abe's touch. Abe presses a kiss to Henry's cheek.

"I just need a little time."

"Then go. Leave, Abraham, if you wish. I have never stood in the way of your leaving."

Abe sighs and leans back. He takes the letters from Henry's hand and tucks the stack back into his coat.

"Don't be like this." They have spent a century and a half together, and sometimes Henry can be a little melodramatic. They both can be. He takes hold of Henry's hands as Henry stares at the floor. He's processing. Abe presses another dry kiss to Henry's cheek, nuzzling against his cold skin. "I'll come back. You don't need to worry. I will always come back to you. I love you."

It's the first time that Abraham has ever said those words. In a century and a half, that is the first time. In all their nights together, amidst all their kisses... And now he's said them. To Henry, they feel disingenuous. He turns and gives a little shrug, the pain in his heart shifting into a hard, aching coldness. There is nothing to say.

"Write me."

"I will."

"Good."

"I do, Henry," Abe repeats quietly; "I do love you."

Henry moves their belongings up to the house in Rhinebeck and meets the writer who runs the grocery.

When Abe doesn't return after a year, Henry starts talking to the writer. He reads through Abraham's journals, and then re-reads the passages about himself over and over. They are flattering, certainly, but Henry cannot help but notice that Abe certainly left things out. Especially in the more recent entries. Yet the feeling of affection that eminates from the pages brings him some slight level of comfort.

After two years, he hands over the journals and the letters and a set of names.

Maybe, he thinks, if the truth was out and Lincoln's legacy was whole and complete... that would be enough to entice Abraham to come back home.  
  



End file.
